


interference

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Series: the way I say "I love you" [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 12:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Harold has just one request to ask of John.





	interference

**Author's Note:**

> from number twenty-two of [one hundred ways to say "I love you"](http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you)

“It’s not heavy.  I’m stronger than I look.”

John doesn’t know whether to be amused or exasperated, and settles on being both.  “I never said you were weak, Finch,” he says, fond and placating.  “It’s just… that duffel you’re carrying contains most of my arsenal, and I know how you feel about guns.”

The way Harold stiffens is minute, but John catches it all the same.  He chooses not to comment on it however, and after an indignant huff, Harold merely slings the duffel tighter over his shoulder, and John has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from voicing out his worry at how the weight of the bag must be hell on Harold’s bad leg.  He tightens his fists inside his pockets to stop himself from reaching out, knowing any well-meaning offer of help from him at the moment will be interpreted as pity.

“My feelings on your arsenal, Mr. Reese, hasn’t changed one bit,” Harold sniffs, “but I have to profess gratitude to them.”

John blinks at the way his employer seems to be talking about the weapons as if they were a _person_.  “For what?”

Harold abruptly stops walking at that, and John looks back in both surprise and confusion.  “Finch?”

“For saving your life,” Harold says quietly, his eyes strangely solemn behind his glasses.  “I may not like guns, Mr. Reese, but if it is what is required to protect you, then perhaps I should learn to care for them too.”

It takes Harold hobbling silently past him for John to snap out of his frozen daze as he spurs into action.

“Finch.”

Harold looks down at the hand that is clutching his arm.  “Mr. Reese?” he replies, just as tentatively.

John takes a deep breath and turns to face Harold fully, the hand on his arm preventing him from pulling away.  It seems like there’s no need for John to worry; Harold seems intent on staying close as he returns John’s piercing gaze with a calm one of his own.

“The guns didn’t save my life, Harold,” John says, remembering how Harold crashed the car through the door of the warehouse, wrenched John into safety, and drove amidst the rain of bullets firing at them, all because Harold managed to track him down even as John purposefully disconnected the call—and the GPS—between them.  “You did.”

Harold holds his gaze a moment longer before it flickers briefly to John’s shirt, and John knows what he is seeing: the dried bloodstain marring his shirt that’s covering a freshly bandaged wound.

“It was just a graze, Harold,” John says softly, forestalling anything Harold’s about to say when he opens his mouth.  He closes it with a click, and John catches the way Harold’s normally placid expression gives way to something tormented before he schools his demeanour once more.

“That’s highly questionable, Mr. Reese,” Harold finally says, not quite able to mask the shakiness of his voice, “as I seem to be doing a terrible job of saving your life.”

The self-recrimination is familiar, because John has carried it all his life; it’s something that should never, _ever_ be felt by Harold.  “I wasn’t exactly making it easy for you,” John counters, and Harold looks back at him, hearing the apology behind the words.  The hand clutching Harold’s arm finds his wrist, exposed and vulnerable; John caresses the pulse point, which jumps at his touch.

Finally, John sees it: the ghost of a smile as Harold visibly softens.  

“If it’s not too much to ask, Mr. Reese,” Harold murmurs, “please don’t ever cut off our connection ever again.”

The words seem to carry a heavier weight as John recognises that it means so much more than a mere phone call.  He swallows against the lump that has formed in his throat, knowing that the ache from his chest is coming from somewhere inside his ribs, and not from the bullet wound that he has just survived.

(He thinks it’s his heart.)

“I won’t,” John says, low and fierce, and sees Harold’s eyes widen at the steel in his voice: “I promise.”


End file.
